May Angels Lead You In
by windscryer
Summary: Last time he died, it was awful. And what came after was worse. This time... it's not so bad. You know, for dying anyway. PYO ASR 'verse. No slash.
1. I Hope They Have Ice Water In Heaven

I was riding the bus when a plot bunny jumped out and mauled me. Who knew they used public transit? Anyway, this was the result.

Flailed over Lu. All remaining mistakes are mine. Nothing you recognize is or Dean would not be holding back on letting Sam use his powers. Self preservation is a strong drive. And Shawn would probably be on some srs drugs to combat the PTSD I surely give him.

Also, the title comes from the epically awesome song "Hear You Me" by Jimmy Eat World. Go find it, listen, and die of win-overload.

* * *

The worst part was how cliché it all was.

He way alone, lying in the woods of some place he couldn't remember the name of just now. It was cold, the warm spring day having turned to a chill spring night with the setting of the sun.

The blood loss didn't help either. He was dying, the black dog's defiant death strike having ripped a hole in his leg that was emptying his blood on the ground at far too steady a rate.

And all he could think about was clichés and how grateful he was that Sam wasn't here to witness this.

Shawn had needed some research help on a particularly tough case and since this hunt was just a single black dog, Dean had sent Sam off and stayed to take care of the mutt.

Sam would notice, of course, when Dean didn't check in tonight. He'd call his phone and leave messages, beginning with distracted, moving on to annoyed, then finally transitioning to fear. And he'd come and search every inch of this place until he found Dean's body. That would go badly. Dean had no illusions about that.

But Sam would be okay. He would.

Shawn and Juliet and Bobby—hell, probably even Gus—would look out for him, take care of him, and make sure he was okay until the grief faded enough for him to move on with his life.

"Sorry, Sammy," he said aloud, coughing and grimacing at the pain the sharp movements sparked. He gasped out a curse for the pain, then panted as he stared upward, blinking as the little starlight he could see began to dim.

"Sorry," he repeated. "So sorry..."

He could _feel_ the life seeping out of him and he wanted to fight, to man up and Rambo his way back to town where he could get help...

He wanted it, but people in Hell wanted ice water and, as the adage went, that didn't mean they got it.

He coughed out a laugh. He had personal experience with that particular phrase and even if Hell wasn't all fire and brimstone it was still true. Screaming until you were hoarse—and then for an eternity more—could really parch your throat, you know?

Sounds began to fade and Dean let his eyes close, the calm void slowly overtaking him.

It was surprisingly peaceful this time, dying was, and he had only the regret that he couldn't tell Sam that.

Sure, it hurt, but so much of his life had been filled with pain that that wasn't anything really. But for the agony burning up his leg and the assorted bruises and scratches and such, he felt acceptance of his situation.

Sam was going to beat himself up over this and Dean hated that, of course. It wasn't Sam's fault. It was just the job.

Thank God for Shawn though. This moment wouldn't be peaceful if not for him. He wasn't Dean, but he would be close enough. Dean was middle in chronological age, oldest in mindset, but Shawn was still an older brother to Sam almost. And despite his c'est la vie attitude, he would step up and take Dean's place for Sam.

Knowing that, Dean could die in peace here and now.

He had a moment to hope that saving the world had bought him some brownie points, that he'd be taking the elevator up instead of down this time, but there was nothing to be done about that now so he just breathed out and surrendered to the dark.

* * *

Review, plz & thx.


	2. Or Maybe I'll Stick Around Here

Well it wasn't Hell. He knew that immediately.

Hell didn't have soft beeping. It was screams and sobbing and pain and sorrow made audible.

Hell didn't have soft beds either. Metal and wood and the stress of suspending you from your own limbs, yes; anything that could be even vaguely described as 'soft', no.

Hell didn't smell like antiseptics with the hint of something flowery. It reeked of vomit and piss and shit and fear.

And it sure as—pardon the pun—Hell, didn't have soft murmuring voices that were as good as the drugs that had to be floating through his system to bring about the level of detachedness he was feeling. The only murmurs were ones of sick pleasure for the speaker as they methodically and teasingly laid out how they were going to torture you that day.

Not... His brow furrowed.

"Dude, I'm telling you, Indiana Jones could have kicked Han Solo's ass any day."

"Han Solo had a blaster and a very loose sense of morals! Indiana Jones—"

"Had a whip, man. The only guy who brings a whip to a firefight is the one that's going to win by sheer bad-assery."

A snort followed this declaration. "Yeah, because making an enemy of Jabba the Hut _and_ taking on the Death Star with a barely flying hunk of crap metal isn't at all indicative of bad-assery."

"It is, but not nearly as bad-ass as taking on the freakin' Nazis with a freakin' whip, dude! _Nazis_."

"Han Solo took on the_ Empire_. The one that pretty much conquered the whole universe? The Nazis never even conquered all of _Europe_."

"Yeah, because Indiana Jones—"

"—Was awesome," Dean rasped out before dissolving into a coughing fit that folded him in half and had him curling up on his side.

Aaaaand there was all the pain he had been missing when he was lying still not aggravating his injuries. The soft beeping turned shrill and annoying and was no doubt making a racket at a nurse's station somewhere.

"Dean! Whoa, take it easy there, man."

The hands that braced his shoulder as he continued to hack up his left lung—soon to be followed by the right—went with the voice and relief he wasn't expecting washed through him as his brother held on.

He only had a moment to wonder where Shawn was before he heard rapid words at the door.

"He just woke up—"

"Well it's about time," an older female voice said.

Dean was on the verge of passing out again from being unable to catch his breath through the coughs and he knew he looked as _handsome_ as ever with the sweat dripping down his surely reddened face from the exertion of trying to suck in air and then cough it back out.

Sam's hands moved down as the nurse's hands got a grip on his right arm and he was hauled upright, feeling as weak as a newborn as he was held in place.

It helped though.

Embarrassing as fuck, but he'd take that since the coughing was abating and he could actually feel air going in before it was pushed back out.

When his lungs gave up the escape attempt finally, a glass of water with a straw was waiting for him and he gratefully sucked down the cool liquid until it was pulled away. He tried to follow it, but the arms holding him up didn't allow that.

"No!" he gasped, but a face appeared in his field of vision. Older, complimentary to the voice he'd heard, with laugh lines and a medley of sternness and kindness that was typical of the really good nurses.

He liked them younger, but he actually preferred nice to pretty when it came to his caregivers. Not like he was really in a position to take advantage of a pretty nurse when he was injured enough to warrant a hospital stay anyway.

"You drink that too fast and you'll be throwing up," she told him. "If you think coughing was bad, throwing up will be worse. Now sip slowly."

The straw came back and he obediently sipped, resisting the urge to suck hard and get a good mouthful before it was taken away again.

The tickle in his throat was washed away eventually and he released the straw, sagging in the grip of his supporting hands.

"Done," he sighed.

He was carefully lowered back down, then came back up as his nurse manipulated the bed controls from almost completely flat to a more comfortable reclining position.

Sammy and Shawn were the only visitors present, but he saw indications that others had, if not physically been here, sent well wishes and warm thoughts.

It was a little weird seeing the tokens of concern, but the other bed in the room was empty so he knew that they had to be for him.

He looked to his two companions and was relieved to see they were both physically okay. Sam looked a little rough around the edges and had shiny eyes from the incipient tears of relief and worry, but he was smiling so Dean knew he'd be all right. Shawn looked much more relaxed and far less concerned, but there was a shadow in his eyes that said this had been hard on him too—he was just hiding it from Sam.

Boy, did Dean understand that.

Didn't explain why he wasn't dead though.

"What happened?" he asked.

"What's the last thing you remember?" the nurse asked as she took his vitals, fingers gently clasping his wrist, eyes locked on her watch. An old-school nurse who liked the personal touch. Dean liked her even more.

Dean looked to his brother and friend as he cautiously said, "I was hiking." His lips quirked upward at the corners. "Just enjoying God's bounty."

Blue eyes flicked from the watch face to his, calling him on his bullshit. Oh yeah, she was a good one.

His voice sobered when he said, "And then there was this dog. Ugly bastard. Came out of nowhere. Was it rabid?"

"Yes," Sam spoke up, his eyes jumping to the nurse and then back to Dean's. "We, uh, think so anyway. We burned the body just to be sure."

That had the nurse rolling her eyes. "Admirable, but not entirely helpful. Without anything to test, we had to give you the inoculations just in case."

Sam winced, apologizing with his eyes, but Shawn grinned.

"Be glad you were out for that. Those needles are _huge_."

Dean huffed a laugh. He knew it had been a necessary lie and Shawn was right: He'd been out for the worst part.

"Then I guess I was doubly lucky."

"Indeed, Mr. Spencer. Hopefully your luck will hold. Now I'm going to see if we've got something for you to eat since you're probably starving."

"Oh hell yes."

"How does broth and jello sound?"

He made a face indicating his opinion and she laughed.

"I'll see if there's any of the chicken and rice left then and let your doctor know you're awake." She squeezed his arm and flashed one last smile, then headed out.

The three of them waited until her footsteps were almost faded completely, then Sam's bitchface made the expected appearance right on schedule.

"What the hell did you think you were doing, Dean?"

"Sam—"

"No." Sam interrupted the resigned sigh. "No, Dean, you don't get to pretend like it's not a big deal. You almost _died_ out there, Dean. You would have if not for a helluva lot of luck that Shawn and I just _happened_ to be out in those woods looking for you already."

Dean frowned. "Speaking of which— What the hell _were_ you doing out there?"

"Sam found the missing link in the case and I did my thing," Shawn explained, waving a hand by his head. "We were going to surprise you, but you weren't at the hotel, so we followed your notes and found the car." His head cocked. "Did you know your brother is part bloodhound?"

Dean laughed. "Yeah. He can be." His eyes met his brother's, still both scared and angry in his scowling face. "Part bulldog too," he added with an arched brow.

Sam opened his mouth, but just shook his head and closed it. "I'm going for coffee," he grumbled and left.

Dean and Shawn watched him go, then Shawn crossed to the bed and sat on the foot, his good humor gone.

"We thought you were already dead when we found you, Dean," he said quietly. "You were white as a ghost and not breathing as far as we could see." He shook his head. "I honestly don't know how we got you back alive. Cas must have called in a favor or two, because even the doc in the ER was ready to call time of death when we came through the door with you. I think the only reason he even tried was because Sam—"

He blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. "Your brother can be one helluva scary SOB when he wants to be."

Dean looked down at his lap and picked at fuzzballs on the blanket. "Yeah. That's my fault. I always spoiled him and now that he's bigger than everyone his bitchfits are, uh..." He coughed and looked at the window. "Anyway. Thanks for looking out for him."

Shawn's head tilted. "Was that why...? Huh."

"What?" Dean asked.

Shawn shook his head. "Nothing. It's just... You looked so peaceful. And considering you had a black dog do his damnedest to neuter you, that didn't make much sense. Especially since you _had_ to know that Sam would keep looking until he found you."

Dean's eyes dropped back to the blanket and he shifted at the memory of the sharp teeth sinking into his thigh.

"You weren't worried or freaked out because you knew I'd be there for Sam. Didn't you?"

Dean made a face. "Way to make it a Lifetime Movie moment, dude."

Shawn shook his head. "No, it's just... I'm flattered."

Dean looked up in surprise. "Why?"

"That you'd trust me to take care of Sam? That's kind of a big deal for you, Dean."

"Shawn—"

"No, really. I'm very flattered you trust me that much." He paused a beat and like a sudden swell on the ocean his face darkened and his good humor vanished. "And pissed as hell."

Dean's eyes went wide at the sudden shift in mood.

"What did you think you were doing, dude?"

"I—"

"Dean, even if I _can_ be there for Sam, I'm not the one—"

He got up and paced away, then came back, jabbing an angry finger in Dean's face.

"You do _not_ have permission to get yourself killed just because you consider me competent to watch out for Sam. Screw that, man. You're not expendable and your job isn't done just because you found someone who can take over your self-appointed bodyguard duties. Sam needs you, and not just because he needs a keeper who will make sure he eats his veggies and remembers his lunch money and doesn't get gutted by a werewolf. He needs his big brother and that's _not _me. Got it?"

"Y-yeah," Dean stuttered. He wished he could pretend it was the drugs that had him so off-kilter, but he knew that wasn't completely true.

And despite Shawn's words—and the vague memory Dean had of thinking that the older man wasn't usually the big brother of their little triad—it definitely wasn't true right now. Dean was clearly feeling his middle place on the totem pole under Shawn's glare.

"Got it," he said again to be sure Shawn knew he really did understand.

The tension in Shawn's body dissipated and his crooked smile made a comeback.

"Good. I'll personally kick your ass next time you forget that."

Dean snorted, but his gaze was wary as he said, "Yeah, like you could."

Shawn raised an eyebrow and Dean decided he didn't really feel the need to ever test that theory.

Shawn wasn't a violent person, but Dean had personally trained him in hand-to-hand and had seen him shoot using the skill his father had instilled in him and knew that Shawn's greatest strength was his ability to make people see what they wanted to see in him—and that usually involved underestimation on a grand scale.

Sam thankfully returned just then, holding the door for a young woman in scrubs who was pushing a cart ahead of her.

"Thanks," she said and then smiled at Shawn and Dean.

"Here," Shawn said, jumping forward and smiling charmingly. "Let me help you with that."

And in a blink Shawn was completely back to his usual self, flirting with the aide and joking with Sam.

Dean watched it all from his bed, how Shawn teased Sam's lingering tension and anger out of him until Sam gave Dean a sheepish grin and perched on the end of the bed.

"Sorry," he said as Dean devoured his chicken and rice. It tasted like heaven, even though he knew it was institutional shit warmed over. He couldn't wait to eat a burger, though if he tried it right now it would probably kill him flat out from the pleasure alone.

"Nah, it's okay, Sammy," he said, eyes flicking briefly to Shawn as he added, "You're right. It was a big deal. If anyone should be sorry it's me, for being an idiot."

"We're used to it," Shawn said, his eyes and the tilt to his head conveying his acceptance of the apology and underlying promise that it wouldn't happen again.

There was a beat in which Dean felt a rush of gratitude for the fact that he was alive—and for the two people who both ensured that was true again and again and made it worthwhile at the same time—and then said, "What would it take to get a beer smuggled in here?"

Shawn laughed and Sam said, "A miracle. And you've had a few of those already this week. Let's not push our luck, shall we?"

"I dunno," Shawn said. "Nurse Candy seems like the type who would not only supply her patients with alcohol, but take advantage of them once they're under the influence."

"Yeah?" Dean said with a grin. "Is she hot?"

Sam shook his head. "Only if you're into eighty-year-olds with wandering hands."

"A fact Sam here can attest to," Shawn confirmed.

"Seriously, dude?" Dean said and Sam grimaced. "What the hell is it with you and being cougar-bait, man?"

"Says the man who slept with a woman at _least_ twice his age."

Dean raised a warning finger. "Okay, first of all, she was hot for a sixty-year-old. And secondly..." He hummed in pleasure. "The things that woman could do to a man. Experience is definitely a fair trade off for age."

"Nice," Shawn said and held up a hand for a fist-bump that Dean returned with a grin.

"Okay then! And we're officially into TMI territory," Sam said, grabbing the remote for the TV. "How about we look for a movie?"

Dean and Shawn chuckled, but they let the subject drop as Shawn rearranged chairs and Dean adjusted his bed. He could feel his energy starting to wane and knew he'd be out before they really got into the movie.

They all settled in as Sam stopped on something exploding and, after a few moments, they were able to pick the movie out.

"Ah, Die Hard. A true classic," Shawn said.

"I liked the latest one," Sam said.

Dean snorted. "Of course you did. It was the geekiest of them all."

Sam shot him a mock glare, and in moments he and Shawn were an argument about who was tougher, John McClane or David Dunn.

"Dude, John McClane knows he's going to get hurt and does it anyway!"

Dean thought about offering his own opinion, but sleep beckoned him and seemed like a much better idea overall.

So he closed his eyes and surrendered to the darkness, knowing that this time it wouldn't be the last thing he'd do in his life.

* * *

Thuh. End.

Review, plz&thx.


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